LENEA AND CRETE -3-

III

I am finally at the counter. Exchange of "Kali Mera"s followed with my broken Greek. I am trying and the agent is patient and helpful. Part Greek part English we take care of business. I make sure to get a 'carta', a map, just in case. He helps me with directions: "You will get out of the parking lot, turn left, then right at the stop light, that will take you to the national highway, follow the signs to Rethymno". “My name-sake”, I murmur to myself. My nickname in the family is “Resmo” the way Cretan Turkos call Rethymno in their Cretan “language” sometimes mixed with Turkish. My grandparents never called their language “Greek”, it was Cretan. The directions are simple enough, I am impressed that they have a national highway on this relatively small island. I do as I am told and find myself driving in the direction of Rethymno. Soon I chuckle “I should've known better” with a smile on my face. The so-called national highway is a two-way divided road, one lane each direction!

And there might be a problem in traffic on this "highway". I wonder "How do they pass if they have to?" in this road that zigzags every 0.1 mile for the most part. The answer will come all too soon. When I see a car driving at 80 km an hour bumper to bumper with me, I can't help thinking "Welcome to Turkey" and move a bit toward the shoulder to protect myself. My goodness, before I can catch my breath he passes me like a bullet. I am all eyes to see how the car in front of me will respond to this aggressive driver, sure enough that one moves onto the shoulder fully and elegantly and the former passes it just the same way. First lesson on cultural immersion: "When in Crete, do as Cretans do" is my motto all of a sudden. The shoulder, apparently, is the second lane for each direction on Crete. "No wonder shoulders are so wide", I will observe in the coming days with great appreciation. I will, soon, also learn not to allow them pass me when I see a risk ahead of me or a narrow shoulder, which they will respectfully follow! It feels good to have at least this much control over Cretan men, I amuse myself, although I haven’t heard a multitude of stories about Cretan male dominance and machismo, yet.

Could I live on this island? At this point my answer is "No", I may like it but not that much, yet. Traffic and its male drivers, testosterone bursting out of their ears are definitely a deterrent, already. “Ignore them Resmiye” I murmur to myself and I go, on the national highway, one lane each way, meandering along the coastal line, breathtaking views either way; sometimes, climbing up a cliff several hundred feet above sea level. Looking at the mountains and hills to my left, I can’t help but feel the urge to leave the highway to find a trailhead to climb up into the solitude of Cretan wilderness. Sense of responsibility is keeping me in check, just, yet. My hostess would be disappointed in Rethymno. On I go. Sometimes the highway crawls down to the shore. Hearing the Aegean sing and dance before my eyes again stir up a desire to park on the shoulder and jump into the Aegean. I want to be able to say “To Nero, erthume”. Again Sofia blinks in my head, I have to go. 

Vendors like this are usually run by a man, but I prefered the intriuging one run by a woman.

I can be an appreciative spectator, though, as I approach Sofia kilometer after kilometer. When I am on top of the cliffs, I marvel at the beauty, vastness, and grandeur of the Aegean, can't help but reminisce it with Madeira, the Portuguese Island off the African coast I just visited in September.  When I go down to the shoreline the close-up sensual connection with the Aegean is yet another spectacular experience. I always loved the sea taking a deep breath and thrusting itself on the shore, rocks, sand, trees, whatever may be on the way. That sound, as wild and aggressive as it may sound always soothed me just as it did and will continue doing on Crete. I take my time to reach Rethymno to take in all the beauty, visual, audio and every other way.  

As I was enjoying the Cretan music on the radio, the breeze through the window, and at times the ripples or soar of the Aegean from a few yards away, I started spotting orange/tangerine vendors on the side of the highway selling their produce. “Just like the small coastal towns of Turkey”, all of a sudden I feel at home. Once again, thinking how similar, in fact, we are around the “Water”, which will become a constant recurring theme over the next week. After passing several of them, I decide to stop, seeing that the next vendor is a woman. And there is another man behind me in a big rush. Yes, I should pull over, I signal and park on the gravel. As I get off the car, she is finalizing her sale with two customers in another car. She hands two bags of citrus, one full of oranges the other of tangerines, takes with appreciation the Euros handed to her. I wonder how she is doing with the economic devastation in Greece: I will soon find out that not only Crete actually is doing just fine but also that it is moments like this when Greece, the mainland gets into trouble despite Crete continuing to do well, Cretans start discussing amongst themselves whether they should secede from Greece or not! Their rebellious nature must have persisted over centuries. 

The vendor’s attention is on me now. She looks so much like my aunts on my father's side; taller than I, curly dark hair, quick movements, and an almost borrowed slightly fake smile on her face; I wonder for a moment whether I made the right decision by stopping at this vendor. Her curly hair falls onto her forehead, with a swift hand gesture, she moves it out of the way. "Kali mera, thaithela paro portakali" can’t recall “purchase”, I use “take” instead, hoping it would work if Greek is similar to Turkish in this regard.  No matter what, I am sure she will understand. She responds speaking very rapidly, I catch “dio ke misi Euros”, assume each bag is 2.5 Euros since there is no scale to weigh, the unit of purchase is plastic bags full of citrus.

Her looks are almost turned inside rather than out, anxious? For what, in this serene countryside? Does she want to get done with me before the next customer arrives? Or deep seated anxiety for reasons I don't know? Do I read too much into something that may be nothing? She moves swiftly, shows me this bag of oranges and that bag of tangerines. Is she afraid I will not like her produce since the individual fruits are irregular in size and shape, their skin is not polished looking as that of the produce in the supermarkets? She doesn't know I am smarter than that. She doesn’t know, yet, I always go beyond what is displayed on the façade, be it fruit, or place, or humans. She doesn’t know I am all about discovering depths and heights and expanses. That I like to touch the deeply seated ripe fruit of life in everything I come into contact with, if I am allowed. Life has taught me to recognize, go for, bring out, and appreciate the treasure underneath rough skin of every fruit I’ve been lucky to touch.

I turn my attention to her once again. Bags are full, literally, 4-5 pounds each, it looks like. "Generosity of first line producers." crosses my mind comparing what is before my eyes with the neatly packed produce in rectangular shaped packages we get in American supermarkets or Turkish or Greek for that matter; nowadays globalization is trimming everything down to one form wherever we go on earth. I can tell under the rustic looking skin, there will be the most delicious citrus I haven't had for a long time, or is it only wishful thinking?